


Home for the Holidays

by LiesLoveAndLullabies



Series: Holiday verse [1]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Drama, Holidays, M/M, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, slight angst (but mostly fluff)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiesLoveAndLullabies/pseuds/LiesLoveAndLullabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanksgiving, 2014.</p><p>Connor travels home to Grand Rapids, Michigan to spend thanksgiving with his family and finds himself reconnecting with an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> I was hoping to post this prior to thanksgiving but since that didn't happen, I hope the fact that it's at least three times longer than I anticipated at least makes up for that in some small way. This is also my first foray into this fandom as a contributor so please be gentle?
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything I know about thanksgiving comes from copious amounts of US TV shows and the internet, so I apologise for any inconsistencies.

Connor puts his luggage on the stoop to knock on the door of his childhood home. Even with a heavy wooden door between them, Connor can hear the excited squeal of his niece and nephew before Gemma opens the door. The moment it is opened however, Connor is engulfed, flanked on both sides by their tiny bodies. Gemma ushers them away with a fond smile, enveloping him in a hug. Before he can say anything, he hears his mother calling out from the kitchen. “Is that Connor?”

“Yes, mom,” Gemma turns to him conspiratorially, “she’s been convinced you changed your mind about coming all afternoon.”

Connor grins. You skip one thanksgiving and suddenly your own mother thinks you’re never coming home. Gemma steps past him to pick up his luggage and they catch up as they take it upstairs.

“Did Paul make it?”

Paul works in finance and if he wasn’t already married to Gemma, Connor would describe him as being married to his job. He’s a good guy and a great father, but a workaholic nonetheless.

Gemma shakes her head as she drops one of the bags on Connor’s old bed. “He’s meeting with international clients but if all goes well,” she sits down beside the bag, “he might still be able to make thanksgiving dinner.”

Connor throws himself across the bed horizontally beside her. “Extended family – thanksgiving or Christmas?”

The moment Gemma confirms that it’s Christmas, Connor exhales a sigh of relief. Traditionally, the Walshes come together for at least one holiday a year – ever since their mother had put her foot down five years ago about the chaos of having to get everyone in the same place twice. Connor, for his part, is just glad he doesn’t have to endure small talk and intrusive questions from distant relatives two months in a row.

“Although,” Gemma drawls out as she stands to leave, “I think mom might have mentioned having thanksgiving next door. You know, since Amy got engaged.”

Connor sits up in an instant. “Mark finally proposed?”

Gemma nods. “About time, huh? I’ll let you unpack.”

Gemma closes the door quietly behind her with a grin and Connor lays back down. Growing up next door to each other, Amy has always felt a lot like a sister to Connor due to her close friendship with Gemma. Their families had been convinced that a romance would blossom between them – thanks to a misguided kiss during their youth – but it was clear their hopes had been dashed the moment Connor came out. Even still, Connor was particularly fond of the Hamptons – Amy’s parents were gentle, thoughtful and doting, and Amy’s brother, Oliver, had been one of Connor’s best friends in elementary and middle school. Between going away for boarding school, studying at Stanford and then living in Philadelphia for law school however, Connor hasn’t spent the holidays with the Hamptons in a significant amount of time.

He could recall brief conversations with Amy maybe two Christmases ago where he’d been instructed to ask for their spare trundle bed - as for Oliver, perhaps it was his first year of college? They hadn’t spoken, of course, but their eyes had met in their respective yards and Oliver had given him a small, polite wave. It hadn’t struck Connor as strange at the time – Oliver had always been the shy, quiet type – but in the corresponding years Connor still hadn’t managed to decipher the flicker of a frown that crossed his face just before he turned away.

Oliver rarely made it back for the holidays, his own mother had informed him once, just before he’d been accepted to Middleton, and it was a shame really, because had Connor heard that Oliver had accepted a job at a high-powered advertising agency? In the IT department, of course. Speaking as if they’d somehow managed to stay in touch after all the formative years stretched out for miles between them.

Connor misses it sometimes, the way you miss any childhood friendship – with a longing for the simplicity it offers – but never lingers on it for very long. A career in criminal law, the kind of career Connor is striving for, requires someone forward thinking, someone not prone to bouts of nostalgia. Someone who doesn’t let their emotions cloud their judgement. So Connor doesn’t think about Oliver, not really, except in the quiet moments like this, when he hovers on the precipice between consciousness and sleep. In the seconds before his eyelids finally close however, he swears he sees movement in the window next door. Though perhaps it’s simply wishful thinking.

* * *

 

Dinner, when Connor is finally woken by his niece, is a quiet affair punctuated with harmless small talk. His parents enquire politely about his progress at Middleton and his internship with Annalise Keating and in turn, he asks them about their own high-powered careers. Like many conversations since he returned from boarding school, they never delve too deeply into the personal. That is, until his nephew starts probing into his romantic life.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Uncle Connor?”

His father dissolves into a coughing fit, gulping down his bourbon too quickly, while Connor sputters out a no. His sexuality, his seeming _abnormality_ , has always been a sore point for his father. They’d never been overly close – Connor preferring the soft heart of his mother to his father’s quiet stoicism – but after coming out at fourteen, any hopes Connor may have harbored about reconciliation had been dashed. The corresponding ten years have helped soften the blow, but moments such as these always seem to set them at least a few steps back.

His mother, bless her heart, provides a peace offering. “If there is someone special in your life, Connor, I hope you know that you’re more than welcome to bring them home. We’re your family, we want you to be happy.”

Connor swallows down a mouthful of meatloaf before answering. He’s not been in a position to see anyone recently, not with Annalise breathing down his neck, but he doesn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings.

“There’s no one special, but,” he smiles at her, “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Buffer successfully applied, she returns his smile, and their dinner lapses into pleasantries once again.

* * *

 

It isn’t until Connor is back upstairs, brushing his teeth, that he recalls the possible vague figure in Oliver’s old room. His sleep-addled brain had been certain it was nothing more than a figment of his imagination but when he creeps back into his own room, toothbrush still in his mouth, he knows he wasn’t dreaming.

There Oliver Hampton stands, clear as day, with a look of deep concentration upon his face. His eyebrows knit together as he digs through what is presumably his luggage, looking for something Connor can’t quite figure out. Before he has much time to hypothesize, however, Oliver’s face shifts into a triumphant grin when he pulls out a book. The boyish expression causes a wave of nostalgia to rush through Connor, unexpected and overwhelming, and he has to fight the urge to draw Oliver’s attention.

Instead, he takes his toothbrush back to the bathroom and returns to find Oliver’s room has plunged into darkness. It’s ridiculous, Connor realizes, waiting around for another light to turn on and alert him of Oliver’s new location, but he finds himself doing so anyway. Not more than a minute later, the Hampton’s back porch light flickers to life and Oliver sits outside the door, opening his book. Before Connor can really think about it, he’s tiptoeing downstairs to their own yard, careful not to wake his slumbering parents.

He’s at the fence, calling out Oliver’s name, when it occurs to him that perhaps this wasn’t his best course of action. Which really would’ve been a more helpful thought before he’d made his presence known.

Oliver looks up with a start. “Connor, hey!”

The smile betrays no underlying tension. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“My plane got in this afternoon,” he offers, by way of explanation, though he cringes at the way his voice carries in the stillness. “You mind if I come over? I feel a little ridiculous yelling at you over the fence.”

With Oliver’s positive affirmation, Connor hoists himself over the chest-high fence separating their parents’ properties. Landing on the grass with a dull thud, Connor racks his brain for appropriate conversation topics as he approaches Oliver. Growing up surrounded by business dinners and corporate dinners has made Connor’s ability to make small talk practically renowned. Now though, his mind seems to be drawing a blank.

Oliver picks up the slack. “I hear you got into law school.”

Connor nods, a little too enthusiastic. “First year, at Middleton. Are you still working in IT?”

Despite the rocky start, conversation begins to flow more naturally as they recount their achievements of their past few years apart. It’s comfortable in a way Connor was sure couldn’t possibly exist anymore, at least not since he finished college. The other law students, his colleagues, spend so much time competing that you’d be hard-pressed to describe the conversation between them as friendly, let alone comfortable. While he’s started to bond with the other interns – reluctantly, if he’s honest – they’re still a long way off being people he can confide in. With Oliver though, it feels natural to tell him the truth, to share the gritty parts of his life. He figures a lot of that has to do with Oliver’s generosity, his ability to listen and give his wholly undivided attention.

Connor abruptly stops talking when a yawn forces its way out of his mouth and Oliver smiles at him, wryly. “Do you remember when my parents bought you that set of walkie-talkies for your tenth birthday?”

Connor nods. His mom had grounded him for a month when she realized he’d given the other one to Oliver and they were using them to talk after lights out.

“I found mine this morning, in a box under my bed,” Oliver continues, “I hadn’t really thought about them since you left for boarding school.”

Not for the first time, Connor is conscious of the distance between them. “Everything really changed after that, didn’t it?”

Oliver studies him for a moment. “Well, I think puberty might have had something to do with it too.”

A bubble of laughter rises up in Connor, low and warm. He's missed this, missed the ease with which their friendship came. He’s missed Oliver, a realization that catches him off-guard.

“I should really go inside,” Oliver tells him, a hint of reluctance in his tone, “I promised I’d pick up the turkey tomorrow and mom’s paranoid the butcher is going to sell the one she picked out if I don’t get there early enough.”

Connor can’t imagine anyone picking a fight with Maria Hampton voluntarily – he’d once watched a grown man wither under the scrutiny of her stare – but he doesn’t argue with her logic. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow or, if not, at thanksgiving?”

Oliver nods, stepping back inside his parent’s house. “Sleep well, Connor.”

* * *

 

After being woken up by excited peals of laughter through the hallways, Connor makes his way downstairs for a late breakfast. He was up later than he expected, consumed by more thoughts of Oliver than he’s willing to admit, and more than a little disappointed to discover that Gemma has used the last of the maple syrup.

“What am I supposed to put on my pancakes?” He grumbles as his mother sets a plate stacked high in front of him.

His father eyes him over the screen of his tablet. “You ought to know by now that you need to make it down to the table before Gem to get any syrup,” he absentmindedly chews on a piece of bacon and swipes across the screen. “Maybe your mother and I should think about getting you an alarm clock for Christmas.”

Connor rolls his eyes but there’s a hint of mirth in his father’s expression when their eyes meet and it feels a lot like progress.

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Between building a cardboard robot with his niece, going grocery shopping with his mother, and setting up a crime scene for his nephew the aspiring detective, Connor hardly has a minute to himself.

It’s late when he finally does head upstairs, having spent the evening watching an old game with his father. Though much of their time had been spent in silence, it lacked the discomfort many of their attempts in earlier years had been riddled with. While Connor’s cautious to claim it any kind of victory so soon, it certainly feels like one. There’s a sense he can’t shake that they may have finally, blessedly, reaching an understanding – something he can truly be thankful for during tomorrow night’s dinner.

Thoughts of thanksgiving are at the forefront of his mind when he notices Oliver is still awake in his own room. Seeming to sense Connor’s eyes on him even through the window, Oliver turns to look at him. Not particularly tired, Connor tries to find something, anything, through which to convey his desire to talk. Finally, at his old desk, he comes across a spare piece of cardboard and a marker and messily scrawls his request. Holding it up to the window, Oliver just squints at it for a moment before reaching for his glasses to decipher Connor’s rushed handwriting. He nods and gestures down to Connor’s yard, holding up a hand to indicate five minutes.

“Is everything alright?” Oliver approaches him slowly, with a furrowed brow. “I thought something might’ve gone wrong when you wanted to talk.”

Connor’s heart lurches at the concern in his voice. Level-headed, patient Oliver has always been a fixer – a born handyman with an ability to calmly diffuse volatile situations. It’s a stark contrast to Connor’s ability to worry himself sick, sometimes to the point of an anxiety attack. He shakes his head.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just,” he watches Oliver sit beside him, “things are good, actually. Really good, for the first time in God knows how many years.”

At Oliver’s curious expression he continues. “I watched a game with my dad. We didn’t really talk or anything but it was normal, you know? It didn’t feel lie he was disappointed in me or wishing I was someone else.”

Connor doesn’t need to explain his relationship with his father to Oliver – he’d bared witness to it, even if only from a distance. While Connor had been forced to deal with the fallout alone, back in his dorm, Oliver had been here, in the midst of the Walsh family coming to terms with the change in dynamic. Connor’s never asked Oliver what it was like, too afraid to hear the ugly truth himself, but he knows it wasn’t pleasant.

Oliver broaches the topic gently, as if he’s afraid of startling Connor. “I knew something had changed that summer and no one would tell me why,” He slides his glasses back up the bridge of nose, “and then your dad came over and asked for my help fixing this outboard motor. At first I didn’t think anything of it – I mean, you were away at school and Gemma wasn’t into that kind of thing – but then I heard my parents whispering about you in the hallway and I knew that wasn’t why he’d asked.”

It’s a story Connor’s never heard before – a part of his family history that he’s been isolated from – and though Oliver didn’t say it to hurt him, it stings all the same. “I felt guilty about it,” Oliver tells him, hastily, “I hated feeling like your dad was using me to punish you when you’d done nothing wrong.”

They’ve never spoken about his sexuality, despite the overwhelming loom it’s placed over both of their lives, and Connor finds himself curious to know how Oliver reacted. “Were you surprised when you found out?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Amy was, but I think that might’ve been because she still believes she was your first kiss.”

Connor grins at the faint blush on Oliver’s cheeks. It’s incredibly amusing to know that a chaste kiss seventeen years ago can still inspire such a reaction in Oliver. His face quickly turns somber, however.

“Connor, I need to tell you something.”

The tone of his voice is so grave that Connor panics for a moment that Oliver might be dying. The thought is insane, although Oliver’s restless fingers don’t exactly give him confidence. Oliver doesn’t look up when he tells him.

“I’m gay.”

“Oh.” The syllable comes out in an exhalation Connor didn’t realise he was holding. “How long have you known?”

Oliver’s eyes flicker up briefly. “Three years for sure but uh, I’ve suspected since high school.”

“But I thought…,” Connor is trying to work this new information into the timeline of what he knows by proxy of Oliver’s life but it doesn’t quite fit. “Weren’t you dating someone? Like, a girl someone? Katie or Kayla or K-something-“

“Kimberly,” Oliver interjects, “yeah, during sophomore year of college. I’d been with guys before but I was terrified of coming out so I kind of latched onto her. She was part of the Christian Union and really sweet but she was opposed to sex before marriage, which was the real reason I stuck around for so long. Unlike with other girls on campus, I could get away with just an occasional peck on the lips without her getting suspicious about why I never wanted to take things any further.”

Oliver’s confession leaves Connor reeling, forcing him to observe Oliver in a whole new light. Was it his own parent’s reaction to Connor coming out that had forced him to stay in the closet for so long? If Oliver had been harboring doubts about his sexuality since high school, he can’t imagine watching his family’s fallout would’ve been much of an encouragement.

“We broke up eventually and I ended up coming out to my friends when I realized the way I felt about guys wouldn’t just go away.” Oliver releases a shaky breath and finally meets Connor’s gaze. “I haven’t told my parents, or Amy, but I had to tell someone.”

Connor places a hand tentatively in the space between them. He’s flattered that Oliver trusted him with something so private and he tells him as much. Oliver slides his hand across until their fingers touch, looping his smallest finger across Connor’s in a primitive pinky promise.

“I have to admit though that I’m a little disappointed,” he continues at Oliver’s questioning glance, “If I’d known you were gay, I wouldn’t have wasted the opportunity to use a bit of tongue.”

Oliver shoves him, looking positively scandalized. “You were seven!”

Connor laughs, clutching at his stomach to calm himself. “I still think you got a raw deal. Seven-year-old me was a terrible kisser.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Considering it was your first kiss, I’d say you did an alright job. It definitely wasn’t the worst kiss I’ve ever had.”

“Let me make it up to you.” The words leave Connor’s mouth before he even realizes what he’s suggesting. Once out there however, he finds that he’s not particularly interested in taking them back.

That is, until he sees Oliver’s face full of trepidation. “Connor…”

He immediately launches into damage control. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, I shouldn’t’ve assumed-”

“I want to,” Oliver interrupts with a blush, “I just, I don’t want my parents to see.”

“Unless they’re prone to going outside in the middle of the night I think you’ll be fine on that front.”

Oliver’s smile is crooked and shy. “You raise a good point.”

The playful banter between them dies away and Connor finds himself leaning in, almost excruciatingly slow. He’s not entirely sure why it’s so important but he’s determined to prove to Oliver just how well he can kiss. And if that means making out with Oliver on his back porch in his pajamas, then so be it. Their lips finally touch and Connor lets it linger for a moment before opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. He cups the back of Oliver’s neck, dragging him closer as their hands remain clasped on the step between them. Kissing Oliver is exactly like Connor expects – slow, steady, and familiar – and he feels a warm swoop low in his stomach.

When Oliver pulls back, his glasses are askew and he’s trying not to grin. “I think you’ve managed to make it up to me now.”

Connor reaches up to fix his rounded frames. “You think or you know? Because if you’re still not sure, I’d be more than happy to give you another demonstration.”

Oliver’s lips are back on his in a matter of seconds, but not for very long. “I should go…”

Connor takes advantage of his hesitation by drawing their mouths back together. “Or,” he drawls between kisses, the words muttered against Oliver’s mouth, “you could stay here and we could keep making out.”

“It’s pretty late.”

“All the more reason to stay.”

Oliver finally pulls away, tilting his face out of Connor’s reach. “Connor.”

He huffs out a breath, admitting defeat. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to miss out on maple syrup at breakfast.”

Oliver’s eyebrows quirk up at his complaint, a brief flicker of recognition across his face. “Gemma still drowns her pancakes in syrup?”

Connor nods, explaining that Paul no longer lets them keep it in the house, earning him a snicker. Standing up to say their goodbyes, Connor glances at Oliver’s face. His lips, a little swollen, pull upward on one side in a poorly concealed smile. His cheeks, flush with color, dimple on the same side. His glasses are smudged, lightly obscuring the dazed expression that lies beneath.

He’s beautiful, absolutely breathless, and Connor wonders why it’s taken him so long to notice. After assenting to one last kiss, Oliver crosses into his own yard though not without a number of shy backward glances. Each time he turns back to find Connor watching, his blush seems to deepen.

* * *

 

With his sister and her children en route to the airport to pick up Paul, his father repairing a loose piece of guttering, and his mother helping prepare thanksgiving dinner at the Hampton’s, Connor’s afternoon looms long and uneventful before him. The initial novelty of having the entire house to himself quickly wears off, as does the ability to catch up on missed emails, so he finds himself making his way next door. The front door unlocked, he lets himself in and begins his search for Oliver. There’s no good explanation for why he’s so eager to find the other man – other than the fact that Connor’s spent the last twelve hours consumed by thoughts of his hands, his mouth, and his smile, that is. It’s an infatuation of the likes Connor hasn’t felt since his early boarding school days and it causes his heart to stutter in his chest.

As he enters the kitchen, surrounded by a flurry of activity, Connor hopes his desire isn’t written all over his face when he enquires after Oliver.

Marie Hampton whirls around at the sound of his voice. “Connor, dear, you’re looking so grown up!”

She pulls him into a tight embrace. “I’ve just sent Ollie downstairs to find the gravy boat but I’m sure he’d appreciate some help.”

Connor tries not to grin at the invitation, thanking her as politely as he can manage. She waves him off. “Just promise me you’ll tell me all about law school and your life in Philadelphia at dinner, I feel as if I’ve missed so much!”

When Connor leaves the kitchen, he swears he can see a hint of moisture in her fond eyes.

* * *

 

The wooden staircase leading into the basement creaks, just as it did when they’d played down there as kids, and Oliver doesn’t even bother looking up at the sound. He’s hunched over a cardboard moving box, rummaging through its contents, in a scene similar to Connor’s first night back. It’s also a view he very much appreciates.

“I still haven’t found anything,” he calls, voice slightly muffled, “are you sure you didn’t throw it out?”

“I hope not, how am I supposed to smother everything in gravy without it?”

The sound of his voice causes Oliver to whirl around, rather ungracefully. “Connor,” he sounds breathless, “what are you doing here?”

Conscious of seeming too eager, Connor shrugs and tucks his hands in his pockets. “I got sick of being home alone. Plus your mom,” he saunters over, backing Oliver into the stack of boxes behind him, “said you could use some help.”

There’s no question as to Connor’s intention as he lets his gaze rest on Oliver’s mouth.

“I’m not sure that’s the kind of help she was suggesting.”

Connor leans in until their lips are only millimeters apart. “My own wishful thinking, then.”

Their mouths meet, slick and hot, with every ounce of desire they’ve been forced to deny themselves. Oliver pulls away with a gasp when the boxes they’re pressed up against teeter behind him. “If you keep going, we’re going to end up buried alive down here.”

Connors tempted to snark back at him with a comment about watching too many episodes of Hoarders, but then he’s being pulled onto an old couch with Oliver underneath him and suddenly it’s not so funny anymore. Oliver’s not so shy about what he wants this time around, his mouth warm and demanding against Connor’s. There’s an urgency to the way he grasps the back of Connor’s head, trying to bring him as close as possible, that makes Connor heady. Their hips align, eliciting a guttural moan from them both. His skin feels alight, desperate to feel Oliver’s own against it, but there are too many layers between them.

Lips never straying too far apart, Connor’s only just managed to slip his hand underneath Oliver’s shirt when they’re interrupted. “Have you found the gravy boat, dear?”

Illuminated by the light behind her, Maria’s shadow looms down the staircase. Oliver practically throws him to the floor in his panic to put some space between them. “Not yet, mom.”

Connor’s still picking himself off the ground when she walks in. “I could’ve sworn I put it down here.”

She begins rummaging through the same box Oliver was searching when he first came down the stairs. She turns around not a minute later, the white ceramic object clutched between her hands. “What did I tell you? Exactly where I said it was.”

Oliver rolls his eyes affectionately. “You were right.”

Maria’s expression is mischievous when she turns her attention to Connor. “Of course I am, I’m always right.”

Connor appreciates the fact that she’s always made an effort to include him in their family dynamic, even when his own family seemed to have trouble doing so. He wonders though if she’d feel differently knowing he jacked off to thoughts of her son while he was in the shower this morning.

“You know, mahal, I could really use some help peeling the potatoes.” She phrases the words like a request, but both Connor and Oliver are wise enough to know better.

“I’ll be right up, nanay.”

Satisfied with Oliver’s acquiescence, Maria ascends the staircase and closes the door behind her. If she finds it odd that Oliver would need a moment of privacy, she doesn’t show it. Oliver addresses him the moment the door clicks into place. “So I should probably go upstairs now.”

Connor nods, hands tucked back in his pockets. Oliver’s trying to get rid of him, that much is clear, and it’s more than a little uncomfortable. Beyond getting to make out with Oliver and the thrill of sneaking around, the fact that Oliver’s only selectively out hadn’t really seemed like much of an issue. Watching Oliver make himself distant in the presence of family however, leaves Connor feeling cold. He wants to be able to be himself around the Hamptons, and he wants that for Oliver too, but it seems like an impossibility when Oliver won’t even let him stand too close without jolting away. It’s a strange thought, wanting to be so close to someone, one that’s he sure doesn’t even make logical sense. Until his brain manages to catch up with his heart and the answer is suddenly glaringly obvious.

He likes Oliver. _Likes_ likes Oliver. Wants to hold his hand in public and kiss him in the snow kind of like. Connor consider that he’s maybe destined to always fall fast and hard for guys who aren’t even out, as some kind of karmic retribution for his cavalier attitude toward intimacy.

He thinks Oliver might’ve figured out his line of thought from the small furrow in his brow, before realizing he’s not wearing his glasses. It’s endearing in the most ridiculous way and Connor finds himself smiling when Oliver pulls him into a kiss. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Connor kisses him, arms draped loosely around the back of his neck. “Save me a seat.”

Then kisses him once more for good measure. He’s screwed.

* * *

 

Neatly dressed and styled, the Walsh family wander next door at 4pm to begin their elaborate feast. Bursting with excitement, his niece and nephew pull their father along in their hurry to reach the front door. Despite the chill, there’s a warmth in the air and Connor suspects it has everything to do with the coming together of family – not that he’d ever admit something so sappy out loud.

As soon as Amy lets them in, his mother is bustling her way into the kitchen, insisting on helping serve dinner. Paul and his father lead the children into the front room where Maria’s set up a collapsible table for them to dine at. It’s the same table, Connor notes nostalgically, that he and Gemma had eaten many a holiday meal at in the company of Amy and Oliver. He’s pulled out of his reveries by Paul clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we get ourselves seated at the grown-ups table, huh?”

Dishes full of sweet potatoes, corn, and green beans are passed around the table and Connor scoops large helpings of each onto his plate. Oliver’s seated to his left, giving Connor the opportunity to brush hands with him each time he passes him a dish. The first time Connor does it, he’s rewarded with a sharp look but as the afternoon trails on without reprimand or acknowledgement, Oliver seems to relax. Connor’s entertaining the idea of more brazen contact when Maria asks him about Middleton. “You were always such a smart boy,” she looks at him fondly, “I’m glad to know you haven’t let the big brain of yours go to waste.”

He doesn’t even get the opportunity to reply before his mother is gushing about his internship with Annalise. It’s a nice feeling, knowing she’s so proud of him, even if it is a little embarrassing. When she mentions that he doesn’t always make it back for the holidays, Maria clucks her tongue in sympathy. “And Philadelphia is so far away,” she agrees, “we’ve had trouble getting Oliver home since he started working out there, too.”

Maria’s remark piques his interest immediately. “You work in Philly?”

Oliver shrinks a little under Connor’s sudden scrutiny. “Uh, yeah.”

He wants to ask him more questions – does he live there too? Is it a temporary thing or a permanent relocation? – but his mother interrupts. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Oliver?”

The tightness in his chest shouldn’t come as a surprise, but somehow it does. It’s almost comical that he’s jealous despite having Oliver’s tongue down his throat a matter of hours ago. Oliver sputters out a response. “Oh, uh-“

“A young lady named Kimberly,” Maria supplies, “they’ve been dating since college.”

Connor’s mother smiles indulgently. “Are we ever going to get a chance to meet this Kimberly?”

“Yeah, Ollie,” Amy teases, “you could at least send us a picture every now and then so we at least know what she looks like.”

Connor can see Oliver’s hand trembling underneath the table so he slides his own across to still it. Oliver releases a shaky breath but his gaze remains firmly on the plate in front of him. He wants to say something, anything, to stop their good-natured teasing, but Gemma seems to beat him to it.

“You ladies need to leave him alone. I’m sure Ollie will bring her home when he’s ready.” She smiles sympathetically at Oliver from across the table. “Unlike Mr commitment-phobe over here,” Gemma stabs a fork in Connor’s direction, “I think he might be allergic to the word ‘boyfriend’.”

Their families both laugh and Connor thinks that maybe the danger has passed, that they might just make it through thanksgiving dinner unscathed. That is, until Gemma starts asking Oliver innocuous questions about his girlfriend. The hand Connor had offered up in reassurance is now being held like a vice, his fingers numb from the force of Oliver’s grip.

“I made out with Connor,” Oliver blurts out, effectively silencing the entire table. “I’m gay,” Oliver continues, “and I made out with Connor in the basement instead of looking for the gravy boat.”

He mutters what sounds like an apology to his mother before looking down at his lap and finally loosening his hold on Connor’s hand. Feeling returns to his fingertips as their two families stare on, unnaturally still. Connor’s not sure he’s ever seen any of them so quiet.

When his mother offers to check on dessert, Gemma in tow, the chirp in her voice sounds almost obscene in the silence. No one dares to speak in their absence, the only sound the quiet scrape of forks and knives along ceramic. Oliver, who hasn’t lifted his gaze any higher than the table since the incident, pushes a cube of sweet potato around on his plate.

He looks defeated, positively miserable, sitting there with his shoulders slightly hunched. Connor feels an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around him, to be able to reassure him and tell him that everything’s going to be okay. But of course, he can’t promise that. So instead, he settles for squeezing Oliver’s knee underneath the tablecloth. He removes it quickly when Amy comes around to clear the table but he hopes he manages to get the sentiment across.

* * *

 

After a simultaneously polite yet tense dessert, the Walsh family bid the Hamptons goodnight as they cross back over to their own yard. The walk back is silent and Connor excuses himself upstairs the moment they’re inside the door, but it doesn’t stop Gemma from following him. She leans in the doorframe of his childhood room, arms crossed. “You didn’t tell me,” her words are matter-of-fact, not a hint of accusation, “I could’ve helped if you’d just told me.”

Connor starts to remove his shoes, avoiding Gemma’s beseeching stare. They’ve never kept secrets from one another before, not even as children. Gemma was the first person Connor came out to, the first person he’d told when he made out with a boy for the first time. Gemma had trusted him not tell their parents when she had a pregnancy scare at seventeen and then another one at twenty-one. Nothing in Connor’s life has ever been so complicated that he hasn’t shared it with Gemma and he wonders when that changed. The truth is though, that he didn’t feel that this was his secret to tell. Oliver had confided in him, trusted that Connor would protect him.

When he tells Gemma as much, she simply smiles fondly. “You can at least tell me what it was like, right? I mean, Ollie’s gotten pretty hot since high school.”

Connor laughs.

* * *

 

Dressed in his pajamas, Connor shuffles over to the window to peek into Oliver’s room. When they were younger, the distance between those windows had seemed exciting and forbidden, now though, it only seems to emphasize how far they’ve come apart.

Connor sighs when he realizes that Oliver’s curtains are drawn and almost resigns himself to an early night when he spots a shadowed figure seated underneath the Hampton’s apple tree. He knows it’s Oliver, knows it because Oliver has always hidden himself away in the yard when he needed a moment of quiet. Without a second of contemplation, Connor pulls on a ratty old pair of sneakers and a hoodie and sneaks outside.

“Mind if I join you?”

Oliver looks up from where he’s picking at a loose thread in his flannel pants and smiles gently. The calm in his expression fills Connor with relief. He sits down slowly, careful to leave a respectable amount of space between them. Moments pass by in silence as Connor gets a good look at Oliver. He’s taller than Connor – always has been – but he no longer looks gawky like he did in the summers Connor came home from boarding school. He’s filled out, grown into his height in a way people in his profession never seem to. It occurs to Connor briefly that Oliver must be spending time at the gym, if the size of his biceps are anything to go by, and it makes him wonder what else he’s missed since he stopped paying attention.

When Oliver eventually breaks the silence, Connor’s struck by how deep and warm his voice has become. “They’re not mad, my parents,” he looks up at Connor briefly, “I think they were just surprised.”

Connor nods even though Oliver isn’t looking. He can’t imagine the Hamptons being anything other than wholly supportive of Oliver – their high-achieving pride and joy – but then again, he’d thought the same thing when he’d come out to his own parents. No matter how accepting they seemed when it was someone else’s son, someone else’s daughter, it was always different when it’s your own.

“I definitely don’t think they expected their son to come out at twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” Connor nudges his shoulder, “God, you’re so old.”

Oliver rolls his eyes at his teasing. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s your birthday in two months.”

They grin at one another and lapse back into silence. It feels companionable and pleasant in a way Connor hasn’t felt in years. “I’m glad I came out,” Oliver admits, “I kind of wish I hadn’t done it at the dinner table but I'm still glad I did it.”

He looks up at Connor with a sheepish smile. “I am sorry I dragged you into it though. Did your parents say anything?”

Connor shakes his head, admitting that he hasn’t really spoken to them since dinner. “Gemma wanted to know if you were a good kisser though.”

The blush that rises in Oliver’s cheeks is only illuminated by the moonlight. “Oh,” Oliver breathes out in a nervous laugh. “What did you tell her?”

Connor smirks, his tone nonchalant. “I said yes but,” he lets his gaze linger on Oliver’s lips before dragging it back to his eyes, “I might need a reminder.”

He can feel Oliver’s lips pull into a grin as their mouths meet, gentle and chaste. Connor’s tongue slides against Oliver’s as he drags his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s not quite as heady as he’s used to – Connor can barely remember the last time he kissed someone without the expectation of something more – but it leaves him feeling warm from his fingers to his toes and he decides that he maybe likes this better.

He pulls away to ask Oliver when he’s leaving. “Tomorrow, actually,” Oliver tells him, “I’m trying to save up my days off for an actual holiday.”

“Speaking of holidays,” Connor drawls, “are you coming back for Christmas?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Staying in the city, I’m afraid.”

Connor tries to quell his disappointment. “But uh, you live in Philly now, right?”

It’s hard to contain his enthusiasm when Oliver nods. “We should hang out after Christmas, when everything settles down. Exchange gifts and all that good holiday stuff.”

Connor’s not entirely sure where this desperate need to reconnect with Oliver has come from or his all-consuming crush. Sure, he’s missed him over the years – even more so when things were particularly bad at boarding school – but this? This is almost needy.

Even so, he finds it even harder to tamp down when Oliver begins grinning at him, giddily.

“That sounds really good.”

They should head inside, Connor knows, but he can’t help but pull Oliver in for one last lingering kiss. As their cold noses brush in the moonlight, Connor realizes he can’t wait to find out what the rest of the year will bring. Especially if it brings more Oliver.

**Author's Note:**

> If you notice any errors - spelling, colloquial, grammatical or otherwise - let me know! I only gave this a cursory scan before posting and I'm Australian so there may be occasions where I've added an unnecessary 'u' or used an 's' rather than 'z'.
> 
> (I'm open to writing about their Christmas meetup and beyond, if anyone is actually interested!)
> 
> Also let me know what you thought of it, I guess? Even if you just leave feedback telling me you hated it and I should abandon fiction writing forever.


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